


perchance to dream

by Emmar



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmar/pseuds/Emmar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You remember, very vaguely, seeing an angry boy, older than you, when your mother took you to the Chantry. You remember thinking, as his anger finally bled out into exhaustion, <i>he looks like he could use a friend</i>, but knowing that it couldn’t be you.</p><p>(Turns out Amell's imaginary friend isn't so imaginary, after all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	perchance to dream

**Author's Note:**

> This idea hit me a few days ago and I just _had_ to write it. There may be scattered snippets of a sequel at some point; this wouldn't change a huge amount of the actual game, after all.

You remember, very vaguely, seeing an angry boy, older than you, when your mother took you to the Chantry. You remember thinking, as his anger finally bled out into exhaustion, _he looks like he could use a friend_ , but knowing that it couldn’t be you.  
  
You dream of him for the first time that night, as you lie on a narrow bed in the apprentice’s quarters of the Circle. You don’t recognise the room, but then, it _is_ a dream, you reason. The boy is sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, looking utterly miserable.  
  
“Are you alright?” you ask, and he jerks upright, eyes red.  
“No,” he says, flatly, and scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand.  
“Me either,” you admit after a minute, perching beside him.  
“My guardian sent me to the _Chantry_ ,” he says, wrinkling his nose like something smells.  
“My mother sent me to the Circle.”  
“You’re a _mage_?”  
“‘parently.”  
“I’m going to be a templar, they say.”  
“There are _loads_ of templars here,” you tell him. “Maybe you’ll come here.”  
“Yeah, maybe,” he says, and he’s almost smiling.  
  
It isn’t until you wake that you realise you never asked for his name.  
  
\---  
  
You dream of him again the next night, and the next. The fourth night, he isn’t there at first, and you sit down on the edge of the bed and stare down at your hands for Maker knows how long.  
  
“Hey,” he says, some time later, and the bed dips beside you. “Are you okay?”  
“No,” you manage after a moment, and burst into tears. You’re never going to see your mother again, or your father, or your little brother, or cousin Bethany or cousin Carver or cousin Marian, you’re never going to see the _sun_ again.  
  
“Um,” he says, and very gently, awkward but without hesitation, puts a hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t even flinch when you turn and bury your face in his chest.  
  
\---  
  
A month later, he looks at the scorched hems of your sleeves and raises his eyebrows and asks, “what happened to _you_?”  
  
Your grin could light up a room right now, you’re sure, as you tell him, “I can do _magic_.”  
“Well, yes, that’s why you’re at the Circle,” he says, nonplussed.  
“No,” you say, bouncing on your toes a little as you cross the room and flop down onto the bed, “I did magic, on purpose! When I was _supposed to_!”  
“Well. Well done?”  
“What about you?” you say, tilting your head to look up at him, and he blinks and squints down at you.  
“What?”  
“Tell me what you’re learning at the Chantry!”  
“Oh, no, you don’t want to hear that, it’s really boring--”  
“No, come on, please?”  
“Alright,” he says, making a face. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  
  
\---  
  
And so it goes; you speak almost every night, of your daily life, mostly - there’s no harm in rambling about your studies, after all, when you’re only talking to a figment of your imagination. He tells you about growing up in the Chantry, and though you wake knowing it’s certainly just your own ideas of how it must be, you like hearing it from him anyway.  
  
\---  
  
“What are you so happy about?”  
“It’s my birthday,” you say, proudly, “and so _I_ am finally allowed in the library _by myself_.”  
  
He dutifully applauds, and you grin and sweep a bow. “Many happy returns,” he says when you sit beside him. “How old are you, then?”  
“Twelve.”  
“Wow,” he says, and grins down at you, and you squawk as he ruffles your short hair, “almost a teenager. Maybe one day you’ll be almost an adult.”  
“How old are _you_ , then?” you challenge, elbowing him in the ribs.  
“Fifteen. Oh! I meant to tell you; I start training next week! Official templar stuff, swordfighting, you know.”  
“ _Wow_ ,” you breath, and the gentle mockery is gone from his smile now.  
“Yeah,” he says.  
  
\---  
  
He’s fretting, when you arrive, you can _tell_.  
  
“What is it?” you finally say, after ten minutes or more of his endless fidgeting.  
“What?” he asks, voice rising an octave. You just turn and look at him, eyebrows raised, and he drops his gaze and flushes. “Um,” he says.  
  
You wait.  
  
“So, uh, you know how I’m a bastard?”  
“Yes,” you say, expectantly.  
“ _Well_. Turns out I’m a, uh, _royal_  bastard. Apparently.”  
“Huh,” you say, because, well, what else is there to say to that?  
  
\---

  
“What are you _doing_?” you ask, when you finally, finally fall asleep. He startles in the middle of swinging a practice sword and blinks at you, obviously not expecting your appearance.

  
“Practicing,” he says eventually, swiping the back of his free hand across his forehead.  
“Practicing what?”  
“Sword forms.”  
“Oh,” you say. Whatever it was, it looked interesting, and dream or not _knowledge_ is what you crave most. You notice, belatedly, that there’s a weapon stand in the corner, holding a single short staff - about the same length as the one you’ve been practicing channeling your magic through. “Teach me.”  
“They’re, uh,” he says, as you pick up the staff, “not really meant for a weapon like that.”  
“We’ll work it out somehow.”  
  
And you do.  
  
\---  
  
“ _Uno momento, por favor_ ,” you mutter, holding up a finger for silence.  
“What?”  
“I’m learning Antivan,” you say eventually, looking up at him with a smile. “How’m I doing?”  
“How should I know?” he asks, exasperated, and fairly throws himself onto the bed. “I’m so tired I can barely think in _Fereldan_.”  
“Poor baby,” you murmur, and run a hand through his hair gently. He sighs and leans into your touch, eyes closed.  
“I’m just-- gonna nap,” he mumbles, halfway there already.  
“Mmhm,” you say, and go back to your book, stroking his hair while he sleeps.  
  
\---  
  
He looks almost as bad as you feel.  
  
“Are you alright?” you both ask, at the same time, and then he laughs, tired and bitter.  
“No, not really,” he admits, rubbing a hand across his face.  
“Me either,” you say, and remember a conversation much like this a long time ago.  
  
You feel awkward, sitting here beside your imaginary templar when a very _real_ templar cut the head off of the closest thing you have to an actual friend not three hours ago.  
  
“There was a Harrowing,” you say eventually, laying back and staring up at the ceiling.  
“I know,” he says, after an even longer moment, laying beside you, the backs of your hands touching. “I was there.” His voice is brittle, on the verge of breaking, and before he says anything else you turn your hand over and tangle your fingers together.  
  
You don’t say anything for the rest of the night, just lie side by side, hands entwined - and when you wake, somehow, you feel a little better.  
  
\---  
  
There is a stretch of almost a week where you don’t see him, and you start to worry, for all that he’s not real - and how silly is that, worrying about a friend that doesn’t actually _exist_ , who is the best and only friend you’ve ever had, who you’re maybe even a little in love with?  
  
“Sorry,” he says, showing up an hour before dawn when you’re on the verge of drifting off, “I’ve been on night watch.”  
“Ah,” you say, and pat the bed beside you. You’re asleep before he even sits down.  
  
\---  
  
“I’ve been conscripted!” he says, and of all things sounds _excited_ about it. Well, the Grey Wardens _are_ exciting, but more than that something about them terrifies you - like the fear of the unknown, multiplied exponentially.  
“Tell me all about it,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, expression rapt.  
  
\---  
  
You do not dream after your Harrowing, and there is no time for sleep afterwards, on the trek to Ostagar. The hours you do snatch here and there are empty - it’s the middle of the day, after all, and you’re too tired to be imagining even the kindest of friends.  
  
\---  
  
You go as Duncan directed, looking for this Alistair, and as you turn a corner you see a figure in somewhat battered armour arguing with a mage. It isn’t until you get closer that you realise-- You recognise him. There’s no way you wouldn’t, after so many years; even from behind he is unmistakable. And if there was any doubt, his voice is exactly as it always has been. You linger out of the line of his sight until the mage storms away, just taking in the sight of him, here, _real_ , and stamp down hard on your rising hysteria.  
  
“I never pictured you as an Alistair, you know, but it suits you.”


End file.
